


Alone I Wait in the Shadows

by Icarus5800



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: For the love of God, He never fared well with stoves, Javert should be kept away from the kitchen, Javert+fire equals a dangerous combination, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus5800/pseuds/Icarus5800
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sort-of written for the Les Mis Kink Meme.</p>
<p>"My kingdom for a fill where Javert lovingly cooks Valjean dinner, has to wait around for a while being disapproving, and then they have awkward apologetic sex."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone I Wait in the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry guys. I don't know why I even dared to post this here, except that I am trying to improve on my writing and is in desperate need of feedback. Seriously, though, the sex is approximately three words long.
> 
> So there, my first completed fanfic in any fandom, undoubtedly filled with clichés and grammar mistakes. Read at your own risk, and dare I hope you enjoy?

It will be the Jack's birthday tomorrow, and of course he will want to celebrate it with his daughter Cosette and her husband Marius. But tonight...tonight belongs to the two of them. And by God, he will make tonight memorable.

That is why the usually hardworking, devoted, and most importantly, *manly* Inspector Javert is wearing a cute little apron with flower patterns standing in front of the kitchen stove, roasting chicken. The apron was a gift from Cosette, Lord knows why, since neither of them usually cooked. They dined well enough on bread, cheese, and wine, sometimes with a side of prepared meats and vegetables from the market. But tonight is *special*, and he will do this for Jean. No damned featherless chicken is going to defeat the fearsome Inspector Javert, no sir!

Having little to no experience with cooking anything, Javert had left the precinct early to be certain to leave himself enough time before Jean returns from his charity work. On the way home, he had purchased two chickens (just in case, for one must always take precautions in the line of police work), a handful of fresh vegetables, some spices, a bottle of aged red wine, and a cookbook. If anyone thought it odd that the famed Inspector Javert was doing grocery shopping like a housewife, they were too afraid to comment.

Now his foresight had paid off, for the first chicken had somehow, inexplicably, burst into flames inside the stove, despite his exact adherence to the instructions of the cookbook. For a moment there, he had thought he mistook a phoenix for a chicken and brought it home, until his senses returned to him and he quickly doused the flames with all the agility of thirty years of policing. The apron was not damaged in the process, he made certain of that, for Jean cherished every present Cosette had ever given him, and the last thing he wanted was to make the man upset the night before his birthday.

Unfortunately, the poor chicken had been charred beyond edibility.

He had thought—had been quite confident, in fact—that the second chicken would not be needed. But alas, that was not to be. So that was how the ferocious Inspector came to stand in front of the old kitchen stove, waiting for his last chicken to roast with hands on his hips and a bucket of water by his side, keeping an ever-vigilant eye out for the slightest hint of miscreant flame. His glare promises terrible, painful retribution should the stove dare to misbehave again, though what could he possibly have done to punish a stove is a mystery known only to Javert.

He would have bought a new cookbook if not for the press of time, for he is quite certain that the mishap with the lump in their garbage bin was due to improper instructions and not improper execution. But he had seen Cosette roast anything from chicken to lamb to pork before, when annoyance with Marius had driven him to seek refuge with the dolt’s much more intelligent wife during their supper visits with Jean’s daughter, so he is sure in his ability to manage from memory.

The stars seem to be charitable—that is, less cruel than usual—tonight. No further unfortunate incidents interrupted his dinner preparations, and as he sets the table, he imagines the surprised but no doubt delighted smile that would light up Jean’s face like the sun when he arrives home, and the thought alone is enough to bring a tiny curve to his own lips, barely there yet achingly genuine. He settles down to wait.

He waits. And waits. And waits. The clock strikes seven, then eight, and still no creak of the too-long-unoiled front door opening, no gentle voice calling out “I’m home!” No warm embrace, no tender brush of lips, no customary question about his day. No Jean Valjean.

He had taken to pacing in the sitting room sometime between seven and eight, the initial annoyance he felt at the unusual delay gradually giving way to fear, and then to outright panic. He is too hot and too cold all at once, flushed from his relentless pacing and frozen with fear. Time crawls by. His eyes flit about the room restlessly, as if he expects Valjean to materialize out of thin air, and his vision focuses on the crucifix upon their wall. He prays.

The clock strikes nine.

He tries to tell himself that it is nothing, that Jean is probably helping poor widows and their children with carrying furniture, or saving old men from under fallen carts. That despite the man’s age, he is still incredibly powerful and will be well capable of defending himself should the need arise. That he is a good man, a saint even, that none could ever wish harm upon. Yet his heart refuses to listen to the reason of his mind, and he anticipates that his vessels will burst from the speed at which his blood is rushing through his veins. He knows, he knows all too well the potency of human greed. He knows the atrocities that a mere five-franc note could drive a desperate man to commit. And the indescribable horrors that a larger sum might inspire in wicked, monstrous men, such as the likes of Thénardier. A sudden realization blinds him, that Thénardier is still at large, and a hideous, vice-like claw seizes his heart in its inescapable grip. He trembles with terror, fearing that the worst has come to pass.

At long last he could take no more of this agonizing wait and is just about to grab his greatcoat when the front door creaks, particularly loudly (or is that only because of the suffocating silence within the house? He couldn’t tell.) A gentle voice calls out, “I’m home!” and the beloved figured of Valjean emerges from the night outside as an angel leaving hell—only to stop short in the entranceway when he almost crashed into the Inspector.

“Where have you been?” He asks, rather irritably, as he has every right to after all the trouble he had undergone to prepare this meal, only to have it grow cold on their table. His irritation has nothing to do with the fact that he had barely restrained himself from breaking down and weep at the sight of Valjean’s unharmed body surrounded by the doorframe. Nothing at all.

If Valjean is hurt or offended by the harshness of his tone, he doesn’t show it.

“I was just on my way home when I came across a child who appeared to have lost his way. He was crying quite pitifully, the poor little lost lamb. So of course I had to help him find his parents again, which took longer than I thought it would.”

Of course. Of course it has to be children. He had never liked children, and he suspect that he will like them even less after this.

May the Heavens defend any future babies born to Marius and Cosette!

Valjean takes a hesitant step forward. One hand reaches out to clasp his arm, and he is glad, unspeakably glad to have this contact between them, Valjean’s warmth seeping into his flesh even through the fabric of his shirt, warming him from the inside out. He had thought…but that is enough.

“Javert?”

“Supper is cold, you old fool. Come on.”

“Shall I heat the food, then?”

“Don’t bother.” He quails Jean’s protests with a look. “Eat.”

They eat.

After Jean’s first few attempts at conversation are rebuffed by him, the stubborn man at last took the hint. They dine in complete silence save for the occasional clinking of tableware. The bottle of wine remains unopened.

The tension that has been festering during the entire supper at last breaks loose when they reached their room. Their love-making that night is rough, almost desperate. Valjean tries to be slow and considerate, but Javert would have none of it. Their dance is more like that of warriors than of lovers. Their kisses taste of blood and sorrow.

Afterwards, they lay curled up together, tired but not entirely content. Both valiantly pretend to sleep. Neither actually could.

“Will you tell me what is wrong now, mon coeur?”

The question is followed by a long, lingering kiss, so different from the others they had exchanged that night, so carefully gentle as to make Javert feel as if he is the most precious thing in the world. Perhaps…perhaps, he can dare to believe that, to Jean, he is. As Jean is to him.

The kiss broke his already fragile control, and a single tear slides down his cheek, at last giving release to all the anxiety and fear of the day. “I was afraid…” his voice cracks slightly as he tries again, “I was afraid that I may never see you again…”

“Oh, Javert…” Valjean leans down to kiss away the tear. “I am sorry.”

“No you’re not. You could never be sorry for helping one in need, especially not a little child.”

“Perhaps. But I *am* sorry for making you worry so, and I can promise you, my love, that it will never happen again. If chance should force me to stay out late in the future, I will send word.” Here Valjean pauses, giving him a serious look. “But you must promise to do the same. You have no idea how I fret and pray when your duties delay your return home—your return to me.”

“I promise.”

A wry smile. A dry chuckle. “And I believe, after tonight, that I do have *some* idea of how you may feel.”

“Then I give you my solemn promise, Monsieur, my sacred vow, that if it is at all within my power, you will never feel that way again.”

Javert’s breath catches in his throat at the absolute seriousness yet also immense love in his lover’s eyes. He barely manages to whisper an “of course” before a force greater than he can control compels him to bring their lips crashing together again.

The clock strikes twelve.

Javert tears himself away from Jean long enough to bestow him with a rare, tender smile. "Happy birthday, Jean."

"And you are the best birthday present I have ever received." And Jean Valjean proceeds to devour his beloved all over again, with infinite gentleness.

**Author's Note:**

> If you plant seeds of constructive criticism, they will probably grow with the nurturing of the summer rain into harvestable Javert/Valjean fanfics of higher quality in the fall. Just so you know.


End file.
